


Half of Mine

by fishydwarrows



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: AU, Implied Sexual Content, Its implied, M/M, Not Beta Read, POV First Person, achilles is eros, bu t those who dont, dont worry its a happy ending, fun times, gays, have fun with that, its not graphically described, so for those familiar with the myth, thetis is aphrodite, this is basically a eros and psyche au, u know what happens, ummm sex? but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7089169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus is the most beautiful in his kingdom, but no one requests his hand. Worried, his parents go to an oracle of Apollo who tells the terrible news that Patroclus is destined to be wed to a terrible monster. However, when Patroclus meets his husband, it turns out he's not that terrible and is actually pretty handsome.</p><p>An Eros and Psyche AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).



> Chapter 2 illustration by me can be found here: http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/145579618255/i-lay-on-the-ground-in-pain-my-temple-throbs-and
> 
> edit: i've redrawn the original art which can now be found within the fic itself! :D

I am a lonely child, but not lack for company. 

 

I have two sisters. They weave their hair with strands of gold and purple lilacs in the summer; they dress in deep blue and red fabrics that drape down their white thighs and close curves. I am dark and willow-like.

 

An owl, they say.  _ Skops _ they called me. They spit it from their coloured lips onto the ground and pound it into nothing. I am the youngest, and to my Father: the disappointment. I have no skills.  _ Patroclus  _ he named me: the honour of the Father. Yet all I do is bring him shame. 

 

One day my parents left our palace and walked across the city to the Temple and prayed to the Gods. Anything to help their simple boy be more than he is. 

 

Months passed and I noticed a change. It did not occur on me, but around; it was not of my own decision nor really my desire. I would feel the air stir like a flame being sparked into life. I began to be noticed. As I walked our long halls I would hear slave-girls giggle together, serving-boys started to stare at me. Families began to travel to our small kingdom, wishing to introduce their daughters to me. I only see a haze of faces. 

 

They begin to bring offerings. Men and women from the far reaches of Greece making pilgrimages. I hear whispers sometimes. That I am more wondrous than the Goddess of Beauty: Thetis. I wonder how that is true, for I remain the same as I was: simple, plain, owlish.

 

Seafoam and blood, I remember. That is how Thetis was born. Our scholars say she rose out of the sea, dripping with salt from the rushing tide. She has but one child; a rare thing among our deities. Achilles: the God of Love. His spears, they say, always hit true. One strike to the chest and a man may love a goat or a minotaur. I cannot imagine such strength and accuracy. 

 

The offerings continue. They bring heifers and hecatombs. Sour wine and sweetmeats. The men and women gaze and gaze and gaze. But they do nothing more. There are no more proposals, hopeful brides.

 

I am left alone.

 

A cold beauty, they say. Dazzling. Untouchable. Time passes. My sisters are wed to Kings and I am left alone. Only my Father’s shame and my empty room as company. 

 

My nights are quiet and I am filled with a muted sadness like the colours on our painted vases. I often find myself wishing to fade away. Away from the praise, the compliments, everything. I move as in a trance: I eat, I practice, I sit, I sleep. There is no feeling, no sympathy, only white noise following me like a smothering pillow. I wish to sink into the ocean and drown in blood and seafoam. To appease who I have so obviously offended. I wish it to end.

 

My parents travel to an Oracle of Apollo. But, I know who it is I have upset.

 

I am lying in bed when they return. My eyes graze the high ceiling, counting every crack, finding every crevice. “Patroclus.” My Father says. He stumbles over my name like a rocking cart. “The Oracle has revealed to us the purpose of your  _ singularity. _ You are to be wed to no mortal lover.” I intake a sharp breath. I can feel the rough cloth of the bed against my fingers. “He waits upon the top of our highest mountain. He is a monster whom neither Gods nor Men can resist.” 

 

The news spreads like fire. Our people gather and mourn me. I who is not dead yet, but perhaps will be. I speak words of comfort to them. 

 

The day before our envoy departs I go to them: my Father and Mother, and clasp my hands with theirs. “Do not grieve for me. This fate is my own,” I say quietly. My voice is a whisper, a thread waiting to be blown away. “Rather you would have grieved at my acclaim, for the people called me Thetis and neglected the Goddess herself. It is better this way.” My Mother drips hot tears into my tunic and my Father holds me stiff. It is enough.

 

The journey to the top of the mountain is a blur of rock and grass. My sisters do not come, they are too busy with their husbands and kingdoms. The skyline is clear and the air is cool on my skin.  _ I would not mind dying here. _ My thought shocks me, and I turn to my parents, but they are already leaving me. I sit on the closest boulder and stare at the cloudless sky. The sun moves slowly to the West and I feel my resolve crumble like autumn leaves.

 

My throat closes and I bow my head, tears weighing me down. I wish for the monster to take me away, to cast me down to the rocks below and to peck at my rotting corpse. Anything but this loneliness. 

 

I feel the wind pick up around me and whip my tunic about. Suddenly, I cannot feel the ground beneath my feet and I am sailing down the mountain in a wisp of wind. 

 

As I glide I hear the wind whip words around me. Zephyr it calls itself, it is a messenger for its master. I wonder what monster rules the wind.

 

I am dropped softly in a meadow. I look around carefully; the breeze flew me down into a vale, and in front of my eyes is the grandest palace I have ever seen. I walk through the flowers towards it and stretch out my hand cautiously.  _ It is a trick.  _ I think, but my hands do not lie when I feel the cool marble beneath my fingers and caress the smooth wood of the door. I push the door slowly and enter the great hall. 

 

I gasp. The sound echoes in the vast home, much larger than it was outside. The roof is vaulted and painted with images of beasts at hunt. Gold pillars line the hall, woven rugs cover the floor. There are vases with images of Heracles and Bellerophon, black figures against smooth bronze. 

 

My footfalls ring against the stone floor as I look and look and look. Ever there is more splendour to be found. A white fountain. A gilded lyre. A painted statue. A rose filled garden. Stuff of which even my family could not afford. The palace seems to be a kingdom within itself. 

 

I hear a voice whisper in my ear.

 

“Welcome Patroclus, son of Menoitius. All you see is yours. We who speak and are heard will be your humble servants and will attend to you with the utmost care. Say only what you wish and we shall attend to it. Supper awaits, but first: bathe and rest for you are tired, lord.” 

 

I jerk around but there is no one. I am alone still. But I do as I was told and bathe and rest. 

 

When I awake I journey to the hall’s adjoining alcove where supper is laid out. Tentatively, I eat the meal. It is rich and nourishing, and more delicious than anything I have had before. As I sup music plays, the gentle strum of the lyre, and the hum of a woman’s voice. Yet, there is no one.

The day seemed to stretch forever, but night falls as it always will.

 

I start to feel a creeping sense of dread. I have not seen my husband, and my mind conjures the most fearsome of images. A monster akin to Medusa, able to turn me into stone by one look. A hideous beast with jutting fangs and eerie blue eyes. When I climb into bed it is with great reluctance. The blankets swaddle me and I close my eyes wishing for it to end soon. 

 

At last, after what feels like years, I feel a dip in the bed beside me and I open my eyes. There is no light in the room, not even the fair moon seeks to illuminate the face of him, the thing next to me. I roll to my side and stare at the space where he lays. “Kill me now, if that is what you wish.” I say. I feel the bed shift and I can almost imagine the cruel creature gazing at me with his terrible eyes. 

 

“I do not wish it,” he says.

 

In that moment, I am taken aback. The voice I hear is not of grating steel or cursing tongues, but of soft breeze and warm sunlight. “But why?” I ask. My voice sounds plain compared to his, his that should not be, but is beautiful. “I do not want you dead,” he says truthfully. 

 

I am shocked at his bluntness, it is not in the nature of men to speak forthright, but then I remember, this is no man. I shift closer to him in the darkness. I can feel his gentle breath against my face, it is sweet like his voice. 

 

I have never felt so alive.

 

“Why is that?” I whisper in the night. There is no need for secrecy, we are alone. He moves close to me, his nose touching mine. It is soft and smooth and feels distinctly human. “You are surprising.” He says in truth, but there is an edge to his voice, a want. I do not know what I am to do. I hear the beat of my heart in my ears. “I doubt that,” I say, my voice feels like watered down wine, miniscule and weak to him.

 

“Patroclus,” he says in a hoarse whisper.  _ Pa-tro-clus. _ Like a prayer. “It is true.” 

 

Then, we are closing the distance together, and his lips crush against mine like petals from a flower. My mind is dizzy and closed.  _ Wait.  _ I think, and break away. I feel him still on the bed, waiting. “We know nothing of each other.” My breath is ragged, a simple kiss tears me apart. I did not know just how lonely I had become. “Step into the light. Let me see you.” I say. The world is silent and there is nothing until he answers. 

 

“No,” he says softly, “If you saw me perhaps you would fear me or adore me. I would have you love me as an equal, not as a God.” I lay on my side confused. 

 

Who could he be, one so haunted by their own image? Was he shamed by my gaze? Had he watched me throughout the day, judging my worth to the marble statues? I did not know.

 

I pushed it aside and resolved myself.  _ If I cannot see him, I will know him.  _ I think. The sound of his voice, his likes, his mind. This husband of mine seemed kind, I wished to know all. “Come here.” I say. He moves and his forehead rests against mine. Gently, my hands cup his face; under my thumb I feel the curve of his chin, the suppleness of his cheeks, the smooth of his brow. My hands run through his hair, combing his scalp and running down his neck. It continues like this. I feel the jut of his collarbone and the angle of his elbow. I touch it all. This and this and this. 

 

Soon, we are kissing again, and he explores me as well. 

 

We are careful with each other, everything is new and we melt together like metal in a smithy. 

When it is over we cling to each other. The moon has slipped out of view and the darkness surrounds us. It is his mask and my palisade.

 

“I will come only at night,” he says as he strokes my cheek, “However, my duties may prevent me.” I nod, he cannot see it, but feels it. I bring my hand to his. “Can you stay?” I ask quietly. I can feel his eyes on me, and I wonder: what is their colour? 

 

“No,” he says, and I hear the grief in his voice. We have only just met and yet I feel an aching in my chest for him. He kisses my forehead softly and the weight by my side disappears.

 

“Sleep.” I hear him say.

 

I close my eyes, when I wake it is morning, and he is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr:
> 
> @fishfingersandscarves

We are closer after that, and I find though I am alone, I am not lonely as before. 

 

The days weave together and in the dark I learn much of him and he of me. One night I learn that he can play the lyre, the next he is singing to me in the dark. His clear voice bringing a light to the black around us. I tell him of my life: the palace, my sisters. We grow closer and closer. 

 

He begins to stay longer every night, but I always find I am alone when the sun fills the bedroom. It is only then do I feel lonely.

 

I wander the halls of my little kingdom during the day. The servants sing and attend to me with bright chatter, a comfort in the echoing silence the envelops me. 

 

I begin to take walks outside in the vale. Zephyr swirls around me with breezy, quick conversation. The wind’s voice is a rattle of chimes and old bones. I collect flowers and fill the ornate vases. 

 

I long for night now, the gentle embrace of the darkness, his arms. Sometimes I am glad we live together in the dark, for then he cannot see my flush, cannot know how my pulse quickens when we lay together. But, I cannot see him. It is a torment.

 

A year passes. Then two. I know him now. The sound of his voice, the scrape of his nails, the soft of his skin.

 

I am sitting in the meadow when the thought reaches me.  _ I love him.  _ It takes me by surprise in the quiet field. I am not used to loving anyone. My hands crush the flowers I have collected. I held them too tight. My heart aches for my husband, two years I have spent with him and I still do not know his name nor face. It is a strange life. So far from the monster I expected and much better than the death I wished for. 

 

That night, I tell him. There are no secrets between us, only the ones he keeps in necessity, as he often assures me. I am laying on my back and i feel the soft material beneath my fingertips. I take a breath and close my eyes, hoping for some form of reassurance. I feel the bed dip beside me. Sometimes it is pitch black, and he will already be here, waiting for me. Tonight is not like that. 

I shift close to him and he gathers me into his arms. “Are you well?” I ask. That is always how our conversations start now.  _ Are you well.  _ “Yes,” he says softly, and he tucks his chin onto my head. He is the larger of us. “Today I raced a comrade around a beach and fished for bright shells in the water,” he says, “What did you do?”

 

_ What did I do?  _ I wonder to myself. Compared to the feelings I just now realized, the day feels unimportant and obsolete. I pull away from his gentle grasp and cup his cheek. I know his face now, every curve, every angle. I look at the black in front of me and imagine what I might see in daylight.

 

“I love you.” I say. It comes out quiet, like a prayer in a sacred temple. I feel him still under my hand. My heart fills with unease, what shall I do, if he does not love me? There is no where I can go, stuck here in this vale. I am not nothing without him, but I would become hollow. 

There is silence between us, and I refuse to break it first. I hear him take a breath, feel it on his face. “I love you too,” he says, and then he is on top of me and we are kissing.

  
  


More months pass, and in my third year I begin to get homesick. It rises in me like waves on a shore. I think I will crash and burn like Icarus and drown in the sea. My poor wax wings can only lift me so high. 

 

I think of my Father and Mother. They are not golden in my mind, I see them as they were. But, often I catch myself thinking what they look like now. Is there grey in my Father’s beard, is my Mother’s face lined and worn? Then I remember my sisters: they are wives to Kings and probably have children of their own. Am I an Uncle? These thoughts keep me and drag me down until I cannot bear it any longer. The palace I have called home for three years feels more like a prison than it ever did before. 

 

I approach the subject carefully one night. My hand is in his and his chin hooks over my shoulder. I can feel his comforting shape against mine.

 

“Alright,” he says after some time, but I can tell that he does this begrudgingly. I speak words of comfort to him. It will only be a day, I say. They will leave quick, I say. They are empty words but it reassures him, if only a little.

 

In three days my sisters arrive. They look different than I remember, older, worn. No more woven gold, instead jewels that shine and reflect light from their many facets. I ask them many questions. Are you well? How is your husband? Do you have children? 

 

I find that I am not an Uncle, which somewhat relieves me. I have missed much, but at least not that.

 

My sisters exclaim to each other about my splendourous home. They admire the statues and the pillows and the woven rugs. I hear them whispering to each other about things that I cannot quite make out. 

 

Then it is lunch and they ask me questions. “What sort of person is this husband of yours?” They say. I answer best I can. I do not wish to reveal much, it would be a break in our trust, our love that has culminated in three years. But, my sisters persist. 

 

They are not satisfied with the answers I give. They ask: what does he do? I say he is a beautiful youth who spends his time hunting in the nearby mountains. They ask and ask and ask. I am worn down, eroded like a hillside. I confess I have never seen him. They nod to each other, it is as they expected. 

 

“How do you know he is as he seems?” They say. “Remember, brother, the Pythian Oracle declared you were to be wed to a devious and hideous monster. The people of this valley say he is a terrible serpent who fattens you up and sets to devour you in the night. Take our advice. Us, your dear sisters. Take with you a lamp and a sharp knife; hide them so that your husband cannot find them, and when he is asleep: see for yourself the truth. If it is as we say, do not hesitate to cut the head from the beast and liberate yourself from this grand prison.” I stare at them. We are alone in the alcove. 

 

I wish not to listen. But I cannot stop the creeping thought that they are right. I usher them away and the wind whisks them to the mountain top once more. As they fly away I wish that I might join them.

 

I dwell on it for the remainder of the day.

 

Would it not be so terrible to see him for myself? We are wed and I love him truly; yet, I have never seen his face nor known his name, and three years I have been content that way. Not anymore. The thought tears at my mind, I feel as if I am being tugged back and forth above a cliff-side, teetering ever closer to the edge of ruin. I make my decision.

 

At night, I stow away a lamp and knife, and climb into bed, the same as has been done for three years. He is tired tonight and does not speak much to me, only plants a kiss to my shoulder and sleeps. I do not know if that is a blessing or a curse after what I plan to do next.

 

When I am sure he is asleep I slip down to the floor and collect the lamp and knife. Quietly as I can, I light the lamp and move slowly around the bed. The thing I see in the bed is not a hideous monster, to my relief, but the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He hugs a pillow in his sleep, his long golden hair stark against the dark fabric of the bed. His limbs are olive and dark, fluid and long. His face is almost feminine in its beauty, just as I imagined it. I look closer and see two white wings protruding from his back.

 

I know who he is in that moment.  _ Achilles: the God of Love. _ I jerk back suddenly. _ I am wedded to a God.  _ I am horrified now, at what I have done, and drop the knife to the floor. My hands burn and I notice now that the lamp is dripping with hot oil. My breathing quickens, in horror I look up up from my hands to where Achilles sits up in bed. He grasps his shoulder in pain.  _ The oil.  _ I think.

 

He locks eyes with me. I can see the pain and betrayal in his eyes. Green eyes. My heart stutters. 

 

Then, his wings spread and he is a blur, gone through the window. In vain, I try to follow him. I blow the lamp out and cast it to the ground. I climb through the window and fall. 

 

The world spins and spins and spins until I slam to the earth. I lay on the ground in pain. My temple throbs and I taste blood in my mouth. I hear the gentle flutter of wings.  _ Oh.  _ I think.  _ He is still here. _

 

My breathing is sharp and heavy. I feel at any moment I could burst, unravel into nothing. I have done something terrible and my pessimistic mind knows I will pay for it. Then, that voice I know so well, speaks. 

 

“Patroclus. This is how you repay my love?” He says. His voice is broken with sorrow and tempered anger. We have never fought, never kept anything from each other. We do not know how to handle  _ this. _ “I disobeyed my mother’s commands and wed you still. Yet, you think me a monster that must be quelled. Go then, to your  _ sisters _ .” He spits the word like it is poison. “You seem to prefer their advice to mine.”

 

I lay in the dust quietly and cough. My eyes catch the wet glint of blood in the moonlight. I feel only shame and sorrow and self pity for what I have done.

 

“I will leave you here forever, for that is what you deserve.” He sounds tired now, all the ire has faded.

 

I sneak one glance. He clutches at his shoulder still and he looks defeated. He sees me staring and something flickers across his features. I know not what. 

 

“Love cannot dwell in suspicion.” He says to me. His beautiful eyes are pained.

 

He moves towards me, his hand seems to reach for me, but he catches himself and stills. He looks at me warily, he does not trust me anymore. I do not blame him.

 

I close my eyes in pain and grief. 

 

When I open them he is gone, and I am alone once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second fun fact:  
> I decided to do the story of Cupid and Psyche (also known as Eros and Psyche) because I had to do a report on it in English and therefore knew the entire story inside and out. It was the easiest to adapt and change because of my familiarity with the prose!  
> Thank you again for reading! Please tell me what you think in a comment! :-D


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thetis' trials

 

I lay on the ground in grief for what seems like hours. I have run dry of tears, and the spinning in my head has long since ceased. I pick myself up from the dirt and look around. 

 

Gone is the home we shared. The palace and gardens have vanished; I suppose now, they never really existed. Instead I am in a field near to where my sisters dwell. A small kindness, if any. 

I walk through the field slowly, though I am hurt physically, my heart is pained more. In all my years, I never expected to find love. I am as I was, and always will be: lanky, owlish, and idiotic. 

 

Yet, Achilles saw what I was and loved me still. And I him. But, I have destroyed what was. The fault is mine.

 

I find my sisters and at once regale them with what happened. “We told you,” they say. They grieve for me, but even I am not that stupid. I see how hope gleams in their eyes, that Achilles might take them instead of the plainest and the youngest. I leave them to their envy, to whatever end.

Instead I wander. I scour Greece for him. My Achilles. My resolve burns in my chest like a never-ending flame.  _ I can at least apologize.  _ I tell myself. 

 

I travel alone, my sandals become worn and my feet blister and burn in the sun. Yet, I continue.

 

I come at last to a temple in the mountains, thinking perhaps, Achilles will be there. But, there is nothing. The temple itself is desecrated. It reeks of rot and crumbles beneath my feet. I cannot say I am a pious man, but even I could not stand there and let such abandonment continue. I clean the temple and sweep its unused floors. I wipe the dust away from altars and scrub and shine until it looks new again.

 

Two nights, it takes me, but I do not feel burdened. Instead, I am bright and cheered, far from the grief I felt two days prior.

 

I make to go, but suddenly, a figure appears before me. It is Iphigenia, the Goddess of Grain. I startle and rock backwards, afraid of what might occur. 

 

She smiles at me. Her dress is woven grass that sinks into the Earth where she stands. 

 

“Patroclus,” she says, her voice is like the sound of a scythe cutting crop, clean and cool. “You are truly worthy of our pity, but even I cannot shield you from the wrath of Thetis. Yet, I can teach you to allay her displeasure. Go to her, and by modesty and submission, you can perhaps win back the husband you have lost.”

 

Then she is gone and all I am left with is the smell of freshly cut grass and new soil.

 

Who am I to ignore a Goddess’ wishes? 

 

I begin my weary walk down the mountain, and I am all too aware of the suicidal nature of Iphigenia’s request. My feet take me to Thetis’ temple in Phthia, where she is worshipped the most. 

 

I walk across the cold floor of the temple. There is no one here today nor will there be anyone for a week, all are out at festival. The perfect time for me. I feel a sense of dread prickle at my back.  _ If I am to die, let it be no other.  _ I think.  _ It is justice only. _

 

I kneel at the altar patiently and the air seems to fill with the tangy smell of salt. 

 

“Why have you come?” asks Thetis, her voice is the scrape of waves against rock; her fury is the hiss of hot water. 

 

I stay silent. I know not what to say: why have I come? Yet, my eye catches on one mural upon the wall, it is Achilles pictured, and he throws his spear with grace, the lovers in the painting are happy together.

 

I take a breath and look up at her, she is so much taller than I. Fearsome and beautiful. In all our paintings, Thetis is depicted as fair and soft, a short naked woman shaped by the sea. She is cold in reality, a chiseled statue. She is far above us, us, these puny humans who grace the Earth.

 

“I have come seeking my husband,” I say in a clear voice.

 

Her laughter is the breaking of waves, loud and overwhelming.

 

“You, unfaithful servant, ask for  _ my _ son? Have you not done enough? He suffers from the wound you gave him still, unjustly you have stolen his time away and controlled him with your desires. No more! He rests, and will not see you whether he wishes for it or not.”

 

“Please,” I say, “I love him.”

 

She scoffs at me, this Goddess who has tasted nectar and ambrosia, and has wasted enough time on Earth. 

 

“You merely bewitched him with your ill-suited charms. There is no love in you, he was nothing more than a puppet in your pathetic play.”

 

“No!” I say, rising. I meet her eyes. She is furious: I am too. “He is my soul. A part of me. He is half of mine and I of his.” I say it in a rush, for I have never spoken these thoughts aloud. “Will you not grant us this?”

Her cool gaze considers me carefully. I remember then, that though she is his mother, she is also the Goddess of Devotion and Beauty.

 

“If that is truly so, you must prove it. Come,” she says. I look around and realize we are no longer at the temple in Phthia but rather Thetis’ own home. She guides me to a storehouse and points to the largest pile of grain I have ever seen. 

 

“Sort the seeds.” She says coldly, and is gone.

 

I stand still for a moment and my determination withers. But, my mind wanders to thoughts of Achilles. His golden head and green eyes. I feel the will to work and kneel on the hard floor. It will take a long time.

 

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot an ant, crawling towards the heap in front of me. Perplexed, I watch the creature pick up a piece of grain and sort it into a pile. I remember the Goddess Iphigenia’s words and soon enough, more ants arrive. I work with them, and the pile is soon sorted and finished. I send a quick prayer of thanks to the heavens.  

 

“Thetis,” I say aloud, my voice is brimming with confidence. “I have done it.”

She appears like mist, seeping through the walls until she is in front of me. She looks cruelly at the piles before me and points an accusing finger at me.

 

“You had help,” Thetis says, her hair floats around her, dripping wet with the sea. “It is the work of my own son,” she says, her ire rises and spits like a whirlpool, “It seems Achilles' fate is entwined with your own. Pitiful and mortal though it be. But, the punishment remains your own.” She tosses stale bread at me and disappears. 

 

The door locks when she is gone and I am left there in the dark.

 

I do not sleep that night. Instead I lie in the dark, exhausted and alone. I think of Achilles. I wish only to apologize to him, nothing else. If he wishes it he will have me again. It would be enough. The dark is silent and consuming, nothing like the black in which I came to know him, my love. My heart aches, the grief numbed me but now it comes anew once more. There are no tears, just silence.

 

The next morning she commands me to another task.

 

“In the field, sheep graze. They are masterless and golden. Gather for me golden fleece from every one.” Thetis flicks her hand and is gone.

 

The sheep, I see when I reach the field, are beyond the river. Squinting, I can see the sheep have sharp horns and cruel teeth like spears. What's more, the river is high and if I attempt crossing I will surely drown. I realize that Thetis conspires to end me. My shoulders sag in defeat.

 

Then, I hear a whispering noise underneath my feet and I kneel down low to the grass. 

 

“Attempt not to cross the river,” say the reeds in the water, “our Mistress says to wait to noon where the sheep cross the field to shade and there their wool catches on the brambles. Noon is when the river runs the most smooth. Wait until noon.” 

 

“Thank you,” I say to the reeds, and I remind myself to ever more praise Iphigenia with high regard.

 

Noon comes, I gather the fleece in my hands, and deliver it to Thetis. 

 

She seethes and commands me to collect water from the river Styx.

 

I am filled with doubt but do as told. None can collect water from Styx, it is the river by which we swear, not one for drinking. 

 

I think of Achilles.

 

Where I stand there is a high waterfall, I know I will fall to my death no matter what. I steel myself and begin forward, but an eagle flies down and plucks the waterskin from my tired hands. It fills the pouch and drops it back into my hands. Gratefully, I take it back to Thetis.

 

“One final task,” she says calmly. I am unnerved. Never before has she been this calm, it is like water before a thunderstorm, she crackles with coming electricity.

 

“Go to Briseis in the Underworld and with this box procure for me some beauty. I have lost some in tending to my son, whom you have hurt.”

 

I agree, knowing that if nothing else, this task will truly bring about my destruction.

 

I gather the box together and go to the highest tower in her home, my death is the quickest way to Hades realm. I find myself wishing the journey to death quick so I might as well be released from this mortal coil wrought with pain. 

 

“What’s this? In the last hour of your task you submit? There is a quicker way, a cave, through there can you enter Hades’ Realm, it is easier than your own demise,” says the tower that I stand upon. It then instructs me on how I may pass Cerberus and all manners of creatures until I reach the Lady Briseis. “But, be warned,” the tower says, “Look not into the Lady’s box, the beauty of a Goddess is not your own to keep.”

 

At last, I find myself at Briseis’ door and I claim for myself the beauty for Thetis.

 

As I climb the rocks of the Underworld my mind wanders. 

 

I look down at myself: I am covered in dirt, grime, and blood and feel ragged and worn. I wish for Achilles not to be disgusted if he saw me. What could one look into the box do?

 

I open it and the world becomes a haze. 

 

My body drops but I feel detached. I cannot move nor speak. I can only lay here in my folly.

I hear the beat of wings, and suddenly Achilles is there, holding me tight and apologizing.  _ No.  _ I wish to say.  _ The fault is mine.  _ But, I cannot speak. I am far away, stopped by a veil of water and mist and I cannot wake up.

 

I feel him gather me in his arms and we shoot up into the sky. I do not know where we are, all I can feel is the chill air. I see only his chest, for he presses me so close to him I can hear his heart.

 

He holds me close and I hear him speaking. I missed his golden voice. I cannot hear what he says, another barrier set against me. But, soon I feel the mist clear away, and he is in front of me, a look of love and worry so pure in his face that my heart sets to burst. 

 

“Achilles,” I say softly. My voice is worn with disuse and heavy sleep. He looks at me imploringly, searching for hate in my features. I know there is none, there never was.

 

I hug him close and whisper apologies in his ear. We stay together for a long time, and I become aware of eyes upon us. 

 

 

It is Zeus who watches us. He extends his hands, in them are nectar and ambrosia.  _ The food of the Gods.  _

 

I look up at him unsurely, but Zeus nods.  _ I am to partake in it. _ I think. I take the meal cautiously, I look to Achilles for comfort. He draws me close. 

 

“You are to become a God,” he says quietly, “It has been allowed. Do not worry, I will be here.” 

 

He takes my hand and squeezes it. I relish in his presence. He is so beautiful and radiant, I am to become like him.

 

I bring the holy food to my lips.

 

I do not feel a change. But Achilles.

 

He smiles.

 

Then, we are together; we are heart and soul.

  
Half of mine, and I of his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact 3:  
> I wrote this in a span of three days. Not to bad if I say so myself.  
> Thank you for reading my story! Please leave a comment and tell me what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact! I had the idea for this story at 2 am this morning. Goes to show that sometimes sleep deprivation can produce miraculous things. For Avelera because she got me into The Song of Achilles (which broke my heart) and her fic Sing, O Muse is amazing (which is also breaking my heart)  
> Thank you for reading and please let me know what you thought by commenting!


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